


handprints and good grips

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Barebacking, Crossdressing, Lingerie, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:25:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry wants to pull them down and suck him off. Harry wants to never take them off and eat him out over the lace. Harry wants to push them aside and fuck the imprint right into Louis’ body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	handprints and good grips

When Louis steps out of the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe with a hand on his hip, Harry thinks he’s going into cardiac arrest. 

The panties look like fucking _sin_ against his skin, lacy pink on his tan, and—and his _cock_ , somehow already hard and horribly restrained by the underwear. The very tip of it is poking out, precome leaking through his slit. It looks obscene and absolutely filthy, and Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been harder in his life. 

There’s a tiny shade of awkwardness, though; Louis’ face is mostly unreadable, and Harry isn’t sure how he should outwardly react, if this is something that Louis likes or if he wants to back out completely. 

Except then, bringing a hand up to comb through his hair, too long and in desperate need of a haircut, Louis looks him dead in the eye and says into the silence of the room, “I’m not going to call you daddy,” and all the mild tension diffuses out of the room. 

Harry’s mouth quirks up into a smile, but he doesn’t think he has to say anything to that, just stares until Louis walks forward, slowly, intently. 

Harry’s sat on the ottoman in front of their bed, legs open and relaxed, just enough room for Louis to step in between them. He doesn’t, though; walks right up to Harry’s knees and stands there, looking down at Harry with a glint in his eyes and a cock in his hip. When his hands press down on Harry’s shoulders, Harry feels like he is _burning_ ; Louis is the one mostly naked, but he feels trapped and caught in his gaze and very, very exposed. He wants so much. He wants fucking everything, and he wants it with Louis, and he wants it right now. 

“Turn ‘round,” he manages to say, voice low and already hoarse. 

Louis drops his hands from his shoulders and does, slowly, like he’s putting on a full fucking _show_ for Harry. 

The lace is stretched tight around his ass, thin and sheer enough that Harry can see everything almost as clearly as he would without. He can’t help when a hand lifts to take hold of a cheek, nor when his thumb rubs down and presses the material inward. Louis gasps a little, his arm reaching backwards to grip Harry’s shoulder once again. 

Harry leans down to bite lightly right below Louis’ hipbone, balancing himself with a firm hold on Louis’ thigh as he moves further down still, until his breath is blowing above the knickers, above Louis’ hole. He wants to—so _much_ , he wants to do so much, but he wants to do it right, too, with Louis splayed out before him, bared and eager. 

So he makes himself sit up straight, leaning back and waiting ‘til Louis finally turns back around, cock harder still, dark and so hard through the underwear. Harry wants to pull them down and suck him off. Harry wants to never take them off and eat him out over the lace. Harry wants to push them aside and fuck the imprint right into Louis’ body. 

Louis wants him to do _something_ , judging by the way he’s looking at Harry. 

“C’mere,” he says, closing his legs a bit more, enough that it’s comfortable for Louis to sit on his lap, lingerie-clad ass directly above his cock and grinding down a little. 

Harry pulls him down and in for a kiss, his hands automatically going to Louis’ hips. He bites at Louis’ lips lightly, the kiss going straight to filthy in zero flat, Harry’s tongue tracing the outline of Louis’ mouth, the sharpness of his teeth and how he gives just as good as he gets, fingers gripped tight in Harry’s hair, pulling at the strands hard, hard enough for Harry to moan and just kiss back harder. 

It feels... different. Dirtier. He's still in all his clothing, shirt buttoned up all the way and belt buckled securely around his waist, and then here's Louis, fully nude save for this tiny, tiny silk. And it's mesmerizing. It's getting Harry even harder, and he honestly didn't think that was possible; it's become a very uncomfortable situation, reaching the point where it's just as much pain as pleasure, but he doesn't want to move, either. He wants to stay right here, fingers digging into Louis' hips, Louis slowly grinding down in his lap. 

It's not that it's crazy easy to lift Louis, but he can do it, and try though he may to deny it, Harry knows he likes getting manhandled sometimes. So it's fucking gratfiying to be able to do that right now, to put his hands under Louis' ass and stand up, Louis' legs automatically wrapping around his hips for the short bit it takes to walk around and drop him onto the bed. It's even more gratifying when Louis moans, heels digging into Harry's lower back hard enough that it hurts through the fabric of his shirt. Harry hisses, feels his cock throb in his jeans, pressing the heel of his palm into his crotch when he's no longer holding Louis.

Louis is on his back on the bed, the flat of his feet down, knees up and bent. He has a hand low on his stomach, skirting the top of the panties, thumb rubbing the slit of his cock. He's so wet already, bumping precome on the lace, smearing across his skin.

He looks come-hither. And Harry wants to.

"Well?" Louis says, spreading his legs more and running his tongue over his bottom lip, eyes hooded and navy-dark. "What are you waiting for?" 

Harry toes his shoes off, shrugging out of his jacket and letting it fall to the floor. He steps forward until his knees hit the bed, climbs on slowly. Kneels there, staring down at Louis and feeling his mouth go dry, heart pound out of his ears, blood pulse firehot under his skin, and knows he will never want another person as much as he wants this one. 

He pushes Louis' knees down. Pushes him higher up on the bed, tilts his body so that he's extending down the longer length of the bed. He doesn't do it gently, and Louis lets him. 

"On your stomach," he tells Louis, leaning back on his haunches and watching as Louis does so, loving his huff when Harry adds, "ass up," but doing that as well, anyway. Harry takes a moment—or three—to just _look_ , look at the, the everything of it. Everything about it. Fuck.

"What do you want?" 

"You've got to be kidding me," Louis says, turning onto his cheek. 

Harry waits. Louis loves to tease, but he hates reciprocation. Sometimes, though... Harry can't _not_ , even if he ends up as desperate and wanting as Louis does. "For you to touch me." 

Harry could be an asshole. He could run a finger down Louis' leg and ask him if he meant like that, could bite his lip and grin wide when Louis threatens to cut off his balls before he ever has a chance to put them inside him ever again. He could do that, yeah, but more than he wants any of that, he wants to taste Louis under his mouth, wants to eat him out and fuck him with his tongue until Louis is pushing back into it and crying into a pillow, the thin texture of the lingerie melting thin textures onto his body. 

He places two large palms on each of Louis' cheeks, squeezing the flesh and spreading them as far as possible. Which isn’t very much, because of the barrier of the briefs, but it’s still nice, real fucking nice, especially with how Louis moans and wriggles under Harry’s touch. 

Leaning down, Harry places wet kisses all over Louis’ ass, obstructed by the panties but the taste of his skin still coming through. He kisses everywhere but where he really wants, everywhere but where Louis is trying to maneuver him to go. 

“Can you _fucki_ —” Louis starts angrily, before cutting off sharply when Harry slides his hands under the panties, bunching them up in the middle, and licks a long stripe down his crack as roughly as he can, dampening the material and closing his eyes contentedly when Louis like—whines, maybe, something that sounds low and high and guttural and different all at once, leg kicking up and almost hitting Harry in the shoulder as he pushes back into it. 

Harry keeps doing that, not much else, teasing himself possibly more than he’s teasing Louis. He’s _almost_ there, almost, but not quite, nowhere near enough pressure and definitely not deep enough. He barely touches Louis’ hole, only has a hint of the taste in his mouth. Louis is—well, mainly, Louis is going to kill him. 

When Harry pulls back again, this time for good, he half expects Louis to actually act on that, at least until he sits up and sees that Harry has put himself flat on his back—fuck, he’s grateful for how big their bed is all the time and especially right now—and is staring at him expectantly, licking his lips and parting his mouth. 

“Oh fuck,” Louis whispers, eyes bright and sparkling; wild. He scrambles, moving quickly to sit on Harry’s chest and waiting until Harry props his head up on enough pillows before moving gingerly to place his bum right above Harry’s mouth, facing the opposite direction and leaning forward to get a firm grip on Harry’s thighs. 

Harry could have lived with continuing to do it through the underwear, but Louis couldn’t have, and it’s made obvious by the way he tells Harry to, “push ‘em aside,” and waiting until Harry does before finally—and there’s really no eloquent way to put this, is the thing—sitting on Harry’s face. 

He keeps most of the weight off, but other than that, it seems like fair game. 

Harry doesn’t bother teasing this time; when Louis pushes his ass down as far as he’s able to, Harry uses his free to take hold of Louis’ bare bumcheek, displaying him easily for him, and pressing the flat of his tongue hard against Louis’ hole. 

“ _God_ ,” Louis says, letting out this breathy little moan that completely parallels the way he grinds down hard and dirty on Harry’s mouth. 

Louis rides Harry’s mouth like it’s the only thing he’s ever _going_ to do, like there’s nothing else he needs or wants to ever be doing. Louis can be so singularly one-track minded, and it’s—fuck, it’s something else, and it makes Harry feel like he’s going to come in his pants, unable to do anything other than lie there and let Louis take what he wants, trying to push Harry’s tongue in deeper, fucking Harry’s face faster. He tastes like their bodywash and the sea salt sheen of his sweat and the new clothing smell of the panties and like everything Harry’s ever fucking wanted. 

Louis’ balls are pressed kind of awkwardly against Harry’s chin, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s definitely not the weirdest that’s ever happened midcoitus. 

Louis’ sounds are getting higher and happening more frequently. It sounds like a broken litany of _Harry, God, please_ , and fuck, Louis rarely ever begs, but Harry wants to make him fucking _sing_. He wants to make him scream. 

He tightens his fingers around the lace, hearing it stretch and only feeling a little bad; he leans up as Louis grinds down, and presses his tongue as inward as it can go, feeling the tight heat of it all, loving the way the excessive spit drips down as he curls his tongue, loving how wet Louis is getting because of him. 

“Harry, please, can you—” Louis doesn’t sound like he even knows what he’s asking for anymore. Harry thinks he does, though. 

He reluctantly frees the hand holding Louis open to bring it around to Louis’ front. It hardly even takes _anything_ , just him taking light hold of Louis’ cock through the lace, rubbing the softer part of it meant for a cunt against the tip, slicking it up with all the precome, and Louis is coming, hands curling around Harry’s thighs so hard he knows they’ll leave a bruise. He clenches around Harry’s tongue, and it mostly hurts, but that’s never been something Harry minds; he only feels himself get harder, feeling Louis’ dick jerk in his faint grasp and desperate as all out to be inside him. 

After the immediacy has past, Harry thinks it’s strange how Louis didn’t make any noise at all, save for a low _oh_ he had to strain to hear. Louis is usually very, very loud in bed, and even more so when he’s coming. 

When they finally rearrange themselves, though, Louis lying flat on his back with his legs parted and Harry in between them, he thinks he sees why. There are tear-tracks running down Louis’ cheeks, his eyes red and puffy. 

Harry stares. 

"Don't get so cocky," Louis says hoarsely, sounding like he's just gotten his mouth fucked or had the fuck of his life. So maybe Harry is allowed to get a little cocky right now. And a lot sexually frustrated. 

"Can I fuck you?" he asks. It sounds a bit like his words are slurring. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, pressing against the roof of it and still hurting from how tightly Louis'd squeezed around it. 

Louis swallows. "Answer's always gonna be yes." 

"Yeah?" Harry asks, mildly sidetracked from his goal of coming as soon as possible, preferably in Louis. 

Louis shoots him a look, and Harry's very much reminded that, right, yes, they're not talking about marriage right now. 

And it's like... He doesn't think he has the mental capacity right now to be able to take off all his clothing. It's already stressing enough to pull back from Louis and kneel up to hastily undo his jeans. And, well, there's no zipper on these jeans, so he thinks it must be okay and harmless for him to only get as far as pulling his boxers-briefs to right below his balls, ignoring the slight discomfort. 

He bends back down, taking his cock in hand to press forward, and Louis fucking _stops_ him. 

Harry makes an incredibly suspect noise, sounding too much like a whine, and looking at Louis with the question in his eyes. 

" _Wait_ ," Louis tells him, curving his body to the side so he can reach their drawer. He takes out their oil, the one they don't use as much, and passes it to Harry. 

Harry makes quick work of slicking himself up, for sure using more than he needs to. 

"Are you—?"

"I'm good," Louis reassured him, bringing a leg up to wrap loosely around Harry's waist, heel pressing into the small of Harry's back with an insistent force. Harry is too far gone to even argue with him. 

It's more difficult than it needs to be to guide himself in. He forces himself to pace it; the head of his cock catches at the wet rim of Louis' entrance, but all that results in is Louis groaning and, and fucking _hell_ , fucking himself down on it, pulling Harry in in one smooth movement. 

"Oh my God," Harry breathes, running his hands down Louis' side, breathing heavily and trying very hard to calm down. 

The thing is that, like, the panties aren't even off. They're pushed aside so that Harry can be inside him, but they're not off. They look like they're only another pull from falling apart all together, but they're not fucking _off_. When Harry starts thrusting, he can feel the fabric rubbing against his balls, can see the way Louis' cock is already valiantly attempting to get hard again, twitching beneath it. There's come on the lace, on the purple goddamn bow, streaked and drying across his torso. 

Harry is not unconvinced that this isn't the absolute high of his life. 

He fucks Louis because he wants to and because he needs to, always wants to fuck Louis, needs it more than he thinks he's ever needed anything right now. His shirt is sticking to his chest, dripping with the sweat of the exertion. He wants to kiss Louis, but he doesn't have the capability of that; can only burrow his face in Louis' neck and work on marking it up, moaning high in his throat when Louis tilts it to the side for him, places a hand on his hair and holds him there. 

Harry doesn't know how long they spend. He gets lost in the motions, the slap of his balls dulled because of the knickers, the way Louis tightens around him, pulling him as deep as physically possible—and past that point, too, it sometimes feels like—and the force of Louis' hips meeting him down, thrust for thrust. 

Harry doesn't know how long it takes, rationally knows that there's no way it's only taken him five minutes to reach orgasm, all desperation aside, but it seems like no time later that he feels like he's coming, sweeping out of nowhere and washing over him. His dick gets wetter as his own come surrounds it inside Louis, the should-be-gross but also really fucking hot sounds as he rides it out, fucks it back into Louis. 

"Fuck," Louis sighs, slumping back into the bed. "Hike." 

Harry only has a vague idea of what Louis means; he's just proud that he's managed to bring him down to single syllable words. He grunts in agreement. 

It takes a lot of effort and even more willpower to eventually pull out of Louis. Louis hasn't come again, but he likes getting fucked just for the sake of it, too, so that's brilliant, and so is the blissed out look on his face because of it. 

He does what he's been wanting to do and kisses Louis, finally letting Louis taste himself on Harry's tongue. Louis kisses him back languidly, things calmer and more serene than their kisses before. 

"Can I...?" He presses a finger against Louis' hole, using his nail to lightly scrape around the stretched and fucked out rim. 

Louis doesn't technically answer. He keens, his back arching tightly and prettily like a bow, trying to move into it and away all at once. 

Harry fingers him a little, just the tips of his digits, enough to pull at it and feel his come inside Louis, filling him up everywhere. Maybe he doesn't push the panties aside this time. Maybe it's not only his fingers inside Louis; the lace, too, getting dirty— _dirtier_ , rather, with spit and oil and a whole lot of come. Harry knows he will never spend any amount of cash better than this. 

"Okay," Louis says, hitting Harry's side. "I can't, you—out." 

Harry reluctantly does as Louis says, but not before tugging sharply on the rim, biting his bottom lip to stop himself from smirking at Louis' moan and the fluttering of his lashes. Harry kind of wants to make him cry again, but he figures they've got to take a break sometime. 

He collapses onto his side, half his body on Louis' and probably suffocating him a little. He'll live. Harry can't move, anyway. 

"Merry birthday and a happy new year," Louis sighs contentedly, curling a hand in Harry's hair. "We'll have to burn the underwear. And probably the sheets."

Harry's mouth turns down a little. "But—" 

"As if you don't already have an entire set hiding somewhere in the kitchen," Louis says, exasperated. "A single thread of underwear doesn't cost a thousand pounds, love."

"Stop using my laptop," Harry slurs lethargically, leaning into Louis' touch. He's proper drained. Could use a couple years of sleep before he's able to get up and get it up again. 

"Go to sleep," Louis tell him, an undercurrent of affection and fondness in the demand. So Harry does.


End file.
